


The Unconventional Guide to Parenthood

by pandarave12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarave12/pseuds/pandarave12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a one-night stand with almost-stranger John Watson, Sherlock Holmes gets pregnant. It's bad/confusing/maybe good (?) news to John and an extremely good one to Sherlock. This pregnancy will be his greatest experiment and no one else aside from him is allowed to participate so he cuts all ties with John. Besides, Sherlock's never going to meet John again anyway. </p>
<p>Eleven years later, his son does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Congratulations!

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the film Laggies. The plot is different, though.
> 
> This will also probably be my shortest, least dark, multi-chaptered story.

“Are you sure?”

 

Sherlock glares at him. “Of course I’m sure. I didn’t spend the whole morning offering half of my internal organs in the toilet.”

 

John bites his lip. He doesn’t know a lot of things about Sherlock Holmes. He’s five years younger than John and he goes to a different school, close enough that John sometimes spots him riding the Tube, but far enough that John never bothered to strike up a conversation until a few weeks ago. In fact, if he was asked to make a list of the things he does know, it will go a little like this.

 

1)      Sherlock is a genius. And not just the academic kind of genius. He’s the kind whose been told all his life that he’s smart and that he ought to live up to it, which gives him a dickish attitude and the perception that everyone around him is an idiot. The moment John found out what his IQ is, he thought about settling for a job at Tesco because clearly, he’ll never be in the same level as Sherlock bloody Holmes who has huge corporations lining up and wanting to add him to their collection of smart, well-dressed drones.

2)      He has an older brother. John’s never met him, nor does he want to because he’s never heard Sherlock say anything positive about him, and while Sherlock might talk bull half the time, there’s always a bit of truth in what he says.

3)      He’s filthy rich. Money isn’t something John likes to talk about but with Sherlock, you don’t have to bring it in the conversation because it’s obvious from the way he dresses. One of his suits must be the same price as John’s tuition fee.

4)      He was a virgin before John fucked him. John doesn’t remember much of it. They were too drunk on cheap wine and pheromones.

5)      He’s an omega.

 

And well, there’s this. John hesitantly adds it to the list.

 

6)      He’s pregnant and John’s the father.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock doesn’t care much for John Watson. The thing is, he’s not in love with him, in spite of what his parents might think. He doesn’t even know John very well, although Sherlock’s already read a few things about him, like how he’s got an alcoholic older sister and how he’s planning to go to the army. The thing is, John is just someone to converse with while on the way to Imperial. And it— _this_ —is Sherlock’s fault because he made a mistake and let John become more than Guy to Talk to in Train.

 

It’s horribly cliché. There was a party hosted by a mutual friend. They got drunk. They had sex in the master bedroom. And when Sherlock woke up a few days ago vomiting his heart out, it hit the nail on the head.

 

His life has officially turned into a teen movie.

 

But it is _not_ going to be a rom com.

 

“Okay.” His mother’s finally stopped crying. She’s already reeling her emotions in, already fading back into her usual strict persona. Beside her, his father looks grim. “Okay, Sherlock, this is what we’ll do. We’ll have the baby aborted. I know a good doctor who specializes in things like these. I’ll schedule it and—”

 

“No.”

 

She glares at him. “This isn’t funny.” Her hand trembles. She looks like she might want to slap him. But when her hand goes up, it’s to push a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You can’t have that child.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you’re only eighteen!” She takes a deep breath. Sherlock can see that she’s nearly at her breaking point. “Sweetheart, you’ve just started uni. You have such great things in store for you. And this boy…this John…you said that you’re not even emotionally attached to him. I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”  


Sherlock shrugs. “I’m never going to bond.” Neither of his parents protest. They know how he is. They expect him to be a spinster until the day he dies because Sherlock is a genius and geniuses are excused from stupid things like bonding. They just never expected Sherlock to get pregnant. To be honest, neither did Sherlock.

 

“I need someone to inherit my genius.” He pauses, for effect. In his peripheral vision, he can see his brother frowning at him from the threshold. “Think of it as an experiment.”

 

* * *

 

He can’t contact Sherlock.

 

John hasn’t seen him in months. He’s tried everything. From texting to phone calls to actually going to Imperial to ask the administration if there’s a Sherlock Holmes studying there. To his surprise, there isn’t. Which means Sherlock dropped out. Which means Sherlock is hiding from him.

 

John doesn’t tell anyone. He can’t, not with Sherlock MIA. But Harry’s getting suspicious because John is _obvious_. Every time he sees someone pregnant, every time he sees a baby, he gets this guilty expression on his face. “It’s like you murdered someone,” Harry explains when John jumps, startled by a toddler trying to move past him. John steps aside and watches the kid get reunited with her mother. “You didn’t, did you?”

 

“Don’t be stupid, Harry.”

 

He doesn’t understand it at all. Okay, he panicked when he got home and his reaction to Sherlock’s news may not have been the best (running to the bathroom where Sherlock vomited just ten seconds ago so that he can add to the soup of stomach bile was probably not the best thing to do). But John’s not immoral. He’s not going to abandon Sherlock or the kid. He’s not his fucking dad who walked out on them when John was barely five-years-old. He’s going to the army in a few months and he’ll have money for child support (which would probably look measly next to Sherlock’s trust fund but kudos for effort).

 

It makes John feel absolutely worthless.

 

* * *

 

 

“John Watson’s a soldier now.”

 

“Oh, really?” Sherlock waves a hand in a display of nonchalance. “Good for him.”

 

Mycroft leans over his shoulder. There’s an unreadable expression on his face. And then, “He’s blond.”

 

It’s a childish observation. Sherlock raises one eyebrow at that. “I’d assumed he would have your hair color,” Mycroft explains.

 

Baby Boy Holmes is blond. It’s the only thing he has of John, that and the distinguished shape of his ears. His secondary gender as well, which disgruntles Sherlock a bit because he’d made the assumption that he’d be born an omega. His hair will be curly and he has the shape and color of Sherlock’s eyes. The look he sends Mycroft is a grumpy one which Sherlock didn’t think newborns could do.

 

Sherlock names him Haydn which Mycroft scoffs at. Sherlock’s hand pauses at the birth certificate on his lap. He frowns and then, before he can back out, gives him a middle name as well.

 

“Hamish?” Mycroft asks. “Why on earth did you name him after his sire?”

 

“It has a nice ring to it.”

 

It doesn’t, according to the owner. Eleven years later, this is what Haydn will tell him. “Just because you have a weird name, doesn’t mean you had to give me one as well,” is his often complaint and Sherlock will reply with a, “I was supposed to name you Tchaikovsky, be happy that Haydn sounds normal enough. Besides, you get good initials. Three H’s. You can make a good nickname with that; isn’t that what you kids do in your spare time?”

 

"No!"

 

But Sherlock doesn’t know any of these yet.

 

At eighteen—well, almost nineteen, really—Sherlock has three things he considers of utmost value. His intelligence, the old skull he’d nicked from Imperial before handing his form and which now sits on the bedside table to give the nurses a scare, and now this tiny, sleepy, grumpy-looking baby in his hands.

 

It might be a little unconventional to raise a child on his own. Mycroft might think that he’s being rash and that he’s unfit to care for a child and his parents still might be a little confused on what he actually plans to do with Haydn but—

 

Sherlock’s a genius. He can figure this out on his own.


	2. Troublemaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set eleven years later. Haydn's grown up to be a little shit.

“What could possibly have possessed you to climb the kitchen roof?” Greg snaps. He looks at the rearview mirror of the police car. Two pairs of eyes stare back at him. “Your father is going to kill me.”

 

“That’s a severe overstatement,” Haydn replies. His voice sounds less clogged and he’s finally stopped crying, although Greg doubts that the pain’s already abated. He’s holding his broken wrist close to his chest. There’s blood on his head and on the front of his shirt, but it probably just looks worse than the actual injury. If Haydn’s already making sarcastic comments, it means he’s feeling well enough. “No one else will babysit me.”

 

“Haha.”

 

Currently, Sherlock is in Dublin, looking at a case that falls under Dimmock’s department. He and Sherlock have an arrangement. Whenever Sherlock has to take a case outside of London, it falls to Greg to care for his son’s well-being. In school records, the name Greg Lestrade is listed as Haydn’s legal guardian so whenever they can’t get a hold of Sherlock, he’s the one teachers call. It should be an easy job because Haydn’s already eleven and aside from the fact that most eleven-year-olds have the independence of cats, his daughter Mavis is the same age so he has the experience. But easy is apparently, not a word that can be used to describe Sherlock Holmes’s child.

 

Haydn’s a fucking monster.

 

Greg regretted the agreement when Haydn was seven and managed to break several of Greg’s finest china. He regretted it when Haydn was nine and got lost and Greg had to spend the whole afternoon searching for him, only to find him in Regent’s Park, eating ice cream. He regretted it when just last year Haydn got fucking kidnapped for ransom while on his watch. And now there’s this.

 

Greg really ought to retire from this babysitting job.

 

Mavis sticks close to Haydn as Greg makes the appointment. They’re whispering things to each other. Greg’s half-tempted to stop talking to the nurse and to listen in because whenever those two start talking in low voices, it means trouble for Greg. He tries to catch Mavis’ eye and tell her to stop talking but it doesn’t work.

 

“Broken wrist?” The doctor who greets them is fairly young, maybe around thirty-five. He’s blond, short, tanned in a way that says he’s recently been abroad, and he has an alpha scent that warns Greg he shouldn’t underestimate this guy. He greets Mavis with a wry smile then swivels that same look on Haydn. “It’s pretty clear, but I’m afraid you still have to get an x-ray. Protocol.” He says the last with an apologetic look at Greg that says _hey, man, I’ m not being a sleazy guy and I’m sorry that you have to pay extra for an x-ray you don’t really need_. “How’d this happen?”

 

“I climbed a roof and fell,” Haydn says, deadpan. Beside him, Mavis sniggers. The story is incomplete. Haydn probably wanted to dump a can of paint on someone. It seems like the kind of thing he does.

 

“You should be more careful,” the doctor chides. “You’ll make your dad worry.”

 

Greg shakes his head. “Oh, no, Haydn’s not my kid. He’s my…” He trails off, scowling at the amused grin on Haydn’s face. My local madman doesn’t seem the right thing to say. “My colleague’s.”

 

The look Doctor Watson gives him reads _mate, you’re in big trouble._

 

_No, I’m not. It’s not my fault Sherlock raised his kid to grow wild._

“You gotta sign it,” Haydn insists once that cast has set. He thrusts his hand under Doctor Watson’s nose with an enthusiasm that has the doctor taking a step back. The doctor blinks.

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s your masterpiece,” he replies with a grin. Broken bone, Greg thinks with a groan. It’s probably in Haydn’s list of things to do. The doctor smiles back and with a thick black marker signs the cast with a squiggle that Greg thinks might be a name. He squints at it. “Doesn’t look too good.”

 

“Nah.” Haydn beams at it. “It’s perfect.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

His father comes back long after DI Lestrade drops him off at Mrs Hudson’s. He sweeps in the room with his usual dramatic flair, coat billowing behind him like a cape. Haydn tucks his legs closer to his chest in the hopes that his father might not see him. It doesn’t work. Sherlock’s eyes widen a fraction when he spots him. Before Haydn can protest, he’s enveloped in a hug that’s too tight, too bony, and far too weird because this is his _dad_ and hugging and Sherlock Holmes don’t match. He twists his upper body so Sherlock won’t press on his injured wrist.

 

“I’m fine!” he insists once Sherlock’s released him. “God, I didn’t even—ach! Stop it! Stop it! That hurts!”

 

“It’s meant to hurt!” Sherlock snaps. He releases his ear. Haydn scowls and cups it with his uninjured hand. It feels warm to the touch. “Getting lost isn’t a problem because your uncle’s an interfering git, but there’s only so much I can do when you crack your head open.”

 

“I didn’t!” He didn’t. Well, okay, he sort of did, but it’s not like he’s dead.

 

“Not the point.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson chides good-naturedly. “Your boy’s had a scare.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at that. Haydn shrugs. Nothing really scares him. “Don’t be so hard on him.”

 

“Trust me, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock drawls. “Haydn knew exactly what he was doing.”

 

It’s no use fighting in 221A because the anger kind of dissolves when you’re surrounded by china plates with kittens on them, so they say goodbye to Mrs Hudson then head up to 221B. Sherlock’s muttering things under his breath, more than half of which don’t make sense to Haydn. A part of him is still focused on whatever case he’s solved. He lets the Belstaff fall on the floor. Haydn picks it up and presses his face against the wool, taking in the scent of wood and smoke and his father’s natural scent and _hmm_ it smells absolutely fantastic. Instinct.

 

A Mars bar falls out of one of the pockets, and Haydn frowns at it.

 

He picks it up and sniffs it. Something dark and spicy and overly familiar. Dimmock. “Really?” he asks. “I thought you made things clear with him.”

 

His father doesn’t say anything. He’s already in his chair, no doubt sorting out things in his Mind Palace. Haydn rolls his eye. The Mars bar hasn’t been eaten which Haydn takes as a good sign. He unwraps it and takes a bite.

 

The embarrassing thing is, his dad’s young and unbonded and well, if you’re a young, unbonded omega, you’re bound to have suitors. And his dad has a lot. They’re mostly stupid alphas working for Scotland Yard, although Haydn’s seen more than one client try to make a move on his dad. They offer him food which Sherlock never eats. The granola bars and crisps are all stored in the cupboard over the sink and there’s enough of them that Haydn doesn’t have to ask his dad to buy him an afternoon snack at Tesco. Haydn’s also got teachers asking about his dad’s status, and yeah, no, that’s just not on. He doesn’t want to call his math teacher his stepfather.

 

He doesn’t want to call anyone his stepfather. They’re perfectly fine on their own.

 

“What if your biological dad comes back?” Mavis asked once. Because Mavis’ mother kept cheating on DI Lestrade and it was only a few months ago that she finally left, so Mavis is still at that point where she thinks her life revolves around her parents and the divorce is tearing her apart.  

 

Haydn has more experience. Or he has no experience because he only knows Sherlock so he said, “He can go shoot himself.”

 

Sherlock never told him about his sire. Haydn doesn’t have anything. Not even a name. All he has is his hair color because no one in the Holmes family has the same dark blond hair as him. His hair’s slightly curly, though, and Haydn wears it long enough to hide his nape. It makes him look laidback if he’s got it all over his face, and makes him look posh if he brushes it back. The hair hides his true nature since he has trigger happy hands that he probably got from his sire, plus his perfect aim which makes slingshots his favorite weapon. They have to be from his sire because he’s seen Sherlock shoot with a gun.

 

He’s awful at it.

 

So he assumes that maybe his sire just left because that’s how it goes, right? His dad was only eighteen when he had him and teen pregnancy is common enough that Haydn knows how the story goes. The alpha hardly stays.

 

He hangs the coat up then takes a seat on the arm of his dad’s chair. Sherlock looks at him then pulls him to his side so that Haydn nearly topples over his lap. Haydn shifts so he’s in a more dignified position, although he doubts that there’s anything dignifying about burrowing into his dad’s side. Shut up. He hasn’t seen Sherlock in days.

 

“You do have to be more careful,” the man says with a frown. One hand rests on top of his head and Haydn winces when his father accidentally grazes the cut on his temple. “Lestrade’s at his wit’s end and I am not asking your uncle to come pick you up after school.”

 

“Yeah, no, cross that out on the list,” Haydn mutters because if there’s anything worse than his classmates making sexual jokes about his dad, it’s having his Uncle Mycroft at his school, glaring at every kid who comes in his line of sight.

 

They have dinner outside because _someone_ put a decomposed foot in the fridge that managed to contaminate everything edible and okay, that’s partly Haydn’s fault because he was told to take it out and he kind of forgot about it, but whatever, body parts don’t belong anywhere near food. It’s Friday, anyway, and they always eat outside during Friday because that’s the only time of the week when Haydn isn’t busy at what Mavis calls his ‘music geek school’. Angelo’s is familiar enough that Haydn can do whatever he wants. He puts his feet up, ignoring the scandalized look an old lady sends his way. Sherlock raises one eyebrow at that but doesn’t comment on it.

 

“How are you going to play the violin with that?” his dad asks.

 

“We’re mostly doing compositions now,” Haydn explains. He hums a tune that Sherlock nods at in approval. “I’ll play it when I’m better.”

 

His father enrolled him in a primary school that focuses more on music than on academics. Haydn thinks that this is Sherlock’s plan for him all along, since Sherlock himself can’t pursue a music career while he’s still a detective and it doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon. He doesn’t mind because he’s more than good at playing the violin, sometimes to the point where he can even beat his dad (don’t tell him that). Besides, going to this school mean’s he’s not the only one named after a composer. He has a classmate named Schubert and another one named Stradivarius, which, when Haydn dwells on it, makes him one of the lucky ones.

 

It makes him a little bit different from other kids. But that’s not the only thing that does. On weekends, he accompanies his father to the morgue so that he can cut up body parts and take them home like he’s some sort of demented cat, really. He eats breakfast in the living room because the kitchen table usually has something toxic brewing in there. On Mondays, if the school lets them out early, he’ll be at Scotland Yard, watching his father kneel in front of a corpse while DI Lestrade mutters about how Sherlock shouldn’t bring a minor to a crime scene. There’s a skull on their mantelpiece and there are eyeballs in the Smuckers jar on top of the fridge. His uncle occasionally kidnaps him in his sleek black cars because and here Haydn quotes Mrs Hudson, “Mycroft likes to think he’s James Bond.”

 

His dad’s a consulting detective. That alone makes his life a lot more different than other kids’.

 

“What was the case about?”

 

“A locked room with three mutilated bodies.” His eyes sparkle. They’re a pale grey-blue color. Haydn has those eyes. “There was a lot of blood,” he says, poking a finger at Haydn’s side to make him laugh.

 

“Ugh, you’re such a _dork_.”

 

Sherlock’s explaining the details of his latest case when a waiter comes to their table with a bottle of wine. “From the gentleman across your table,” Max says with an awkward smile. Haydn looks past him. There’s an alpha in his early forties watching them, well-dressed in the way that tells Haydn he has a corporate job. He checks his left hand. Married.

 

The wine sits unopened but the man is undeterred and really, how _rude_. The fact that his dad refused to touch the man’s offering is enough to tell him that he’s uninterested. No is no. Haydn tenses when he gets up and goes over to their table.

 

“Byron Holloway,” he says by way of greeting. He extends one hand towards Sherlock. His eyes don’t even flick to Haydn’s direction which brings a sour expression to his father’s face. Sherlock looks at Haydn. His face says it all. _Go for it_.

 

“Is that supposed to mean anything?”

 

The man looks at him. Haydn puts on his best smile, the one that DI Lestrade calls his ‘troublemaker face’ and the one strangers tell him looks ‘angelic’. It’s actually the first one so haha.

 

“I mean, the whole greeting my dad just by saying your name like it’s the most important thing in the world. Mister, I think you’re exaggerating your self-importance.”

 

It makes the tips of his ears go red. For a moment, it almost looks like Holloway’s about to turn around and go back to his own table. But then he straightens, bringing his alpha dominance to the highest level, which Haydn just raises a brow at because _please_ , he practically grew up at Scotland Yard and he’s familiar enough to displays like that to become immune to it. “And you, little boy, are quite rude. Has your father not taught you anything about manners?” His face softens into a smile when he looks back at Sherlock. Haydn pretends to gag.

 

“Yeah, my dad told me something about being rude. It’s kind of in my genes. I’ll never grow out of it.” He shrugs. “It’s kinda like how promiscuity is in your nature.”

 

“Angelo!” Sherlock calls when the man looks ready to hit him. Haydn watches in delight as Angelo forcefully escorts the man outside. When Angelo comes back, he’s apologetic and Haydn gets the dessert he’d been eyeing since they got here. It’s a win-win situation.

 

“I’m not going to bond with anyone, Haydn,” Sherlock assures him when he has a slice of banana and an enormous load of ice cream in his mouth. The smile he sends him is teasing. “Don’t be such an alpha.”

 

Haydn groans at that then playfully kicks him under the table.

 


	3. A Walk in the Park

John hates the bloody cane.

 

He hates the sympathetic looks it attracts, hates the thumping sound it makes every time it hits the pavement. More than once has he been tempted to just toss it over a bridge or something. But that’s not something he should do. At least, not while his leg feels like it’s on fire whenever he leans his weight on it.

 

He got shot in the shoulder and if he doesn’t put any weight on it, it doesn’t hurt that much. His leg didn’t even get scratched but when John moves it too fast, it feels like there’s a severely overweight man sitting on his knee.

 

If anyone else says psychosomatic, he’s going to kill something.

 

“Doctor Watson!”

 

John almost contemplates just walking away because he’s tired and hungry and if it turns out to be another one of his melodramatic ‘I have a cold but I think I’m dying’ patients he’s going to do something stupid. True, he doesn’t he have much to come home to. He’s only been home for a few months and having spent eleven years in Afghanistan, he doesn’t have a lot of friends. The only reason why he has a job is because one of his friends is one pregnancy leave and the work’s boring.

 

He was a soldier. He deserves more than people coming to him for cough medicines and skin rashes.

 

“Hey.”

 

John takes a deep breath then turns around.

 

It’s a kid, maybe around eleven or so. He’s sitting on a park bench with his feet up. There’s a skateboard at his feet and a helmet at his side. His blond hair sprouts from his scalp in a way that reminds John of a hedgehog. The kid tries to flatten it with one hand.

 

“Oh.” John blinks, recognition catching up to him in seconds. “Hey.”

 

“Hi.” The boy just sits there awkwardly for a moment. A guarded expression sits on his face, like he’s not used to interacting with other people, but John pays no mind to it. Most kids don’t like talking to adults. John knows; he’s had enough patients refusing to meet his eyes. He looks at the ground then back at John but still doesn’t say anything.

 

John looks at him. First rule when dealing with children: talk about something you can directly observe on them. His eyes fall on the cast. To his surprise, it’s new; his signature’s missing from it. “You got your cast changed?” he says with a frown. “The last time I saw you was three days ago.”

 

“I got it wet,” the kid replies with a shrug. He cocks his head to one side. It makes his hair fall over his eyes. “My name’s Haydn. You forgot my name, huh?”

 

“Yeah…sorry about that. I get a lot of patients and none of their names stick to my mind.”

 

 “Oh. That hardly happens. I have an odd name.” Haydn scoots to the side and tucks the helmet onto his lap. It’s a clear invitation for him to sit down.

 

He should get home but—

 

Haydn looks miserable. It’s in the set of his shoulders, in the small frown on his face. There’s a phone in his hand that he keeps opening and every time he looks at it, the frown deepens. The doctor in him wants to stop and ask him what’s bothering him.

 

And well, John likes kids. Or at least, the idea of kids. He has one, he thinks, but he doesn’t know if Sherlock kept the child or not. He doesn’t know if _Sherlock_ is alive or not. Hell, he doesn’t even remember what Sherlock looks like because people’s face tend to become blurred when you don’t see them again. Thinking about it still hurts but not in the gut-wrenching way it did when he was younger. He never even really knew Sherlock, and well, maybe, maybe John wouldn’t have stayed for long. Maybe he would have done the awful thing and left after some time, just like his dad.

 

Neither of them were really ready to have a kid, and it must have shown on John’s face, because Sherlock decided to make the decision for him.

 

It’s better to think about that than to think about Sherlock not wanting John in his life at all.

 

John takes a seat, careful not to jostle his leg too much. He catches sight of Haydn watching him, but thankfully, the kid doesn’t comment on it. “Who are you texting?” he asks.

 

“My dad,” he replies immediately. It’s said with the kind of fondness that John’s never heard directed at him. “He’s out of town again and he’s not replying which means he’s probably on the run. Or he got kidnapped again. I don’t know. The last time he didn’t reply this long it was because he got shot and I…” Haydn frowns at that. “Well, that’s never fun.”

 

“Your dad’s a policeman?”

 

“He’s a consulting detective.”

 

John almost asks what a consulting detective is but it’s clear to him that Haydn won’t appreciate the question. He’s pushing the skateboard back and forth with one of his feet. “You shouldn’t be using that right now,” John scolds.

 

“It’s not mine. It’s Mavis’.” He points to where a girl with dark brown hair is, the same girl he’d seen in the clinic. She’s chasing some other kids, her ponytail swinging as she tackles one of the boys. The shouting carries over to where they are. “We go here during the weekend. By ourselves. Since Dad says my uncle’s watching anyway and I don’t really need a handler if we're just going to the park.” He gestures to where a CCTV camera hangs from a lamp post. “He’s probably not watching but he’s got people to do it for him.”

 

“You have a strange family.”

 

“Yeah,” Haydn says with a grin.

 

A few seconds later, the girl, Mavis, walks toward them, closely followed by the two the kids she was playing with. The boys are laughing, playfully pushing each other, but they fall silent when they spot John. “We’re hungry,” the girl says. Her eyes flick to where John sits. “You can take him with us.”

 

John’s eyes widen. “What? No, I’m just about to head home—”

 

“Come on.” Mavis stares at him. She has the same warm brown eyes as her father. When he stands up, she pulls at his arm and in a softer voice says, “He’s miserable and he acts up when his dad’s not here. He'll get us into trouble. So please, mister? You were able to make him smile and none of us were able to do that.”

 

They’re looking at him, the kids. There are four of them and John can’t help but think how strange a child is. All pink-cheeked and wide-eyed with the kind of innocence that makes John nervous about doing something wrong.

 

It’s a bad idea. He doesn’t even know who these kids are, who their parents are, and if he gets reported for kidnapping, well, he’ll be in extremely big trouble.

 

Babysitting or a cold bedsit. It’s his choice.

 

“Fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Why’s there a grown-up with us? Is he paying?” Tommy asks. He’s got the cuff of his Star Wars sweatshirt between his teeth and he keeps glancing at Doctor Watson. No, John. That was what he said to call him. He looks a little lost, probably because the woman at the counter assumed that he’s their father, in spite of the fact that they don’t look anything like each other. Tommy has the color of his sister Molly’s hair and Alfie has the deep-set eyes of his Italian father. And Mavis doesn’t look a thing like any of them, with her freckled face and dark brown eyes.

 

Haydn shakes his head. “No, I’m paying. And Mavis invited him.”

 

“Because you were going to get us into trouble again,” she whispers back. She playfully kicks his foot under the table. It makes his stomach feel…weird and his face feels weirdly hot, like he has a fever. “Brat.”

 

“Piss off,” he mutters, ducking his head. He wonders if he ought to talk to his dad about this. He turns to John. “Are you alright there?”

 

“I’m fine with this,” John insists. He’s seated at the booth across them, eating a meal that Haydn insisted that he pay for, but John said no, he has a job and he’s thirty-five so it’s more than a bit embarrassing if an eleven-year-old pays for it.

 

He’s using the credit card that his uncle told him that he should only use during an emergency. But Haydn’s hungry and his friends are hungry so this should count, because he’s encouraged to make friends. His teachers say that’s his problem: getting along with other kids.

 

But the other kids in his school are mean and snobbish and they pull each other down with rumors, like the kids in his school skipped the age when kids should get along with each other in spite of their statuses, and just moved to the part where people tear each other down like buildings. And they make jokes about his dad, and if Haydn hears another joke about how Rory Gillian thinks his dad is fit, he’s going to kill him. So Haydn doesn’t bother with interacting with those kids, because he grew up with Tommy and Alfie and Mavis and they know him well enough to excuse his antics.

 

“I don’t understand how you four can go around without any adult supervision,” John says. An Omega woman looks at them then at John with a small smile on her face that makes John blush. Maybe it’s a sex thing, Haydn thinks. He looks at Alfie who seems to have the same thing on her mind because he makes a face.

 

“We have trackers,” Mavis explains. She pulls down the sleeve of her jacket to show John the wristband his uncle had made them all wear, shortly after Haydn got lost when he was younger. “As long as we don’t go anywhere unfamiliar, no one comes looking for us. And a lot of the police know who we are, plus most of the homeless people are on our side. My dad’s a detective and Haydn’s Prince of the Homeless network.”

 

Haydn squawks in indignation while Mavis grins at him.

 

“I don’t think that’s very responsible.”

 

“His uncle’s very, very attentive,” Alfie says, pointing at Haydn. “Annoyingly attentive. You just don’t see him. So if you get kidnapped sometime this evening, it means you’re already too into our lives.”

 

John looks at them, alarmed.

 

“You can take him,” Tommy assures. “Haydn says you were a soldier so you can probably punch him if he gets too annoying.”

 

“Oi! That’s my uncle you’re talking about,” Haydn snaps (because Mycroft might be annoying but he’s still his uncle and the only people who should say things like that are him and his dad because there’s familial right) at the same time John says, “Wait, how’d you know I was a soldier?”

 

“He does this weird thing,” Alfie explains. Haydn glares at him. “He can tell your life story just by looking at you. Like this morning he could tell that I ate the leftover lasagna for breakfast and that I didn’t bother brushing my teeth.”

 

“That’s unhygienic; brush your teeth.” John shakes his head then says, “How exactly did you know?”

 

He’s looking at Haydn with a strange expression on his face. Almost like panic. It’s like how Haydn’s father had looked when Haydn came out of the warehouse, unscathed but for the scratches on his wrist where the rope had bitten. He doesn’t want to do it because he’s been told that it’s unsettling when he does that, and he might drive John away.

 

He likes John. He’s only known him for a very short while, but Haydn can read all the good traits on John, and Haydn’s learned enough from his dad to know how separate the people you can trust, from those you ought to stay far, far away from. Like the old man who tried to offer him candy and who his dad said was a paedophile, so yeah, don’t accept candy from strangers. John’s nice. He’s definitely not a paedophile. And he doesn’t talk to him like he’s a stupid little kid, not like how other adults do.

 

But at the end of the day, he’ll always be Sherlock’s kid and he has being a show-off down to his very bones.

 

“You’re tanned but not above the wrists. When you walk, it’s with a straight back, and usually the people who walk like that are dancers or soldiers. Your limp is…” He trails off. John won’t want to hear the word ‘psychosomatic’. “Your limp’s not a real injury because when you’re talking to someone, you kind of forget it since you stand with your weight evenly distributed. And you took a seat near the window, in the spot where you can watch everyone.”

 

“Where…where’d you learn to do that?”

 

“My dad.”

 

It won’t go away. That panicked look on John’s face. Haydn wants to reach over and rearrange his features and make John look at him like he’s not some kind of freak.

 

It kind of hurts.

 

“What’s your dad’s name?” he asks.

 

Haydn looks at Mavis. She’s staring at John as well.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” Haydn answers warily.

 

He doesn’t understand why John looks like he might pass out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy is Molly Hooper's younger brother, Mavis is Lestrade's, and Alfie is Angelo's and they all grew up with Haydn.


	4. To Keep

“AND WHAT MAKES YOU THINK IT’S OKAY NOT TO TEXT BACK!”

 

The noise startles Sherlock. He jumps and accidentally bangs his elbow on the door knob. He hisses, then pulls his arm close to his body. Haydn only stares at him unsympathetically. Sherlock sighs. “Hello, Haydn. It’s good to see you, too.”

 

He’s already in his pajamas but he has his arms crossed over his chest and he’s wearing the crossest expression on his face. It’s John’s. That’s what Sherlock remembers most about John Watson because he’d always make that face whenever Sherlock did something he thought was stupid.

 

Sherlock had seen it a lot of times.

 

“You should have texted,” Haydn mutters, his voice much calmer now that he’s seen that Sherlock isn’t hurt anywhere. Sherlock almost thinks he’s off the hook when, to his horror, Haydn’s lip trembles and when he speaks, his voice has the too-tight, too croaky quality of someone who’s about to cry.

 

“I thought you got kidnapped,” he sniffles and god, Sherlock is in very big trouble because Haydn rarely cries in front of him, not since he was eight and cried in front of his friends. Sherlock had yelled at him for accidentally ruining one of his experiments, and the embarrassment of being caught crying in front of his dad must have made him make a vow to never have a repeat of that episode. He’ll break it now. The tears still haven’t fallen but they’re there, making his eyes bright.

 

Another thing of Haydn’s that John’s. He’s a lot more emotional than Sherlock and no matter how many times Sherlock’s tried to teach him to be more aloof, Haydn still wears his heart on his sleeve.

 

“I thought you got shot and no one could reach you and I thought you died somewhere and—and—you will NEVER do that again or else!” He glares at him. “I’ll run away.”

 

“I’ll be able to track you down,” Sherlock says automatically.

 

Haydn looks like he wants to say something more. But then he deflates, shoulders slumping forward and looking, in that instant, more like his age than he usually does. “Pause.”

 

Sherlock stares at him warily. “When do you wish this to continue?”

 

Haydn bites his lip then shakes his head. “No. Completely stop. I don’t want to talk about this anymore so stop, delete.”

 

It’s an old system of theirs that developed when Haydn got old enough to realize that he has a say in their arguments. Pause if they want to take a break from fighting. Stop if they want it to never be mentioned again. And delete is just another form of stop, only with the conditional, ‘if you do this again, I will seriously hurt you’. Delete’s a promise.

 

And because Sherlock is Sherlock, he always manages to break his promises.

 

It isn’t that he doesn’t love Haydn because Sherlock does, to the point where he’ll probably kill himself if his son dies. It isn’t healthy but Sherlock doesn’t care, because as long as his son is alive and happy, then Sherlock can make rude gestures at anyone who thinks otherwise. Sherlock did everything for that boy. He took a two-year break from uni for him, wrenched him away from his parents’ grasp when they got too interfering, and he nearly broke a bone in Mycroft’s arm when Haydn was just a year old and Sherlock was still bumbling over how to take care of a baby. Mycroft had made the suggestion that Haydn would get better care from someone else and Sherlock had just lost it because how dare Mycroft, how _dare_ he even say that.

 

No one’s going to take his child away from him.

 

He loves Haydn, but he loves the Work as well, and sometimes he loses track. He sometimes gets lost in it and when Sherlock surfaces it’s to find that Haydn’s caused trouble again, and Sherlock will come pick him up to see Haydn with that guilty-slightly smug expression on his face. It never fails to make shame creep into Sherlock’s gut, never fails to make him feel like he’s abandoned his kid, so he rarely scolds Haydn for whatever bad thing he’s done and just treats him out to make up for lost time.

 

It makes Haydn a little spoiled but Haydn’s just a child and he’ll grow out of it. Eventually.

 

Then again, Sherlock was just like him when he was younger and he’s still more than a bit rude.

 

Well. The world’s full of idiots, anyway.

 

“Here.” He tosses the box of Kit Kats at him. Haydn catches it with one hand.

 

“Where’d this come from?”

 

“Case. Client from Japan.” Sherlock makes a frown at that. “She was very insistent. Don’t give me that look, you know that I’d never say yes. It means good luck to them, you know? The chocolates.”

 

Haydn looks at him suspiciously. “I’m not accepting these as a peace offering,” he says. Sherlock shrugs. When he looks over his shoulder, it’s to see Haydn unwrapping one. Not a surprise. The boy likes to eat. And by ‘likes to eat’ Sherlock means that Haydn will gladly put any all-you-can-eat restaurant out of business. Sherlock doesn’t even know where he puts it all because the boy’s skinny as a stick.

 

He still looks like Sherlock, but with bits and pieces of John weaved into him. He doesn’t smell much like John because John never had the chance to claim him. But he has his ears, the way his brows furrow when he’s unhappy, his skin color which has become tanned due to Haydn’s love for the outdoors (Sherlock hates the sun). It’s a good look on him; brings out the gold in his hair. Like how John’s had looked. He also has John’s annoying insistence to keep the flat clean. “You can’t leave those dishes unwashed!” he’d snapped more than once at Sherlock, and Sherlock had just rolled his eyes and replied about being able to buy new dishes, just throw the old ones out if they bother you so much.

 

Haydn hadn’t been too happy about that.

 

“What did you do today?” Sherlock asks. He scans Haydn, checks him for injuries. Aside from his child’s well-being, he can’t pick out any important details. It’s a Holmes thing because Sherlock can barely read anything on Mycroft. They cancel each other out.

 

“I made a friend,” Haydn says, his mouth full of chocolate. “He’s amazing.”

 

Sherlock leaves it at that.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s not going to do it. He’s not going to do it. He’s not—

 

_Google search: Sherlock Holmes_

 

John takes a deep breath. It’s going to be unsearchable again, he thinks. He presses enter and he’s…wrong. The last time he did that in Afghanistan, a million spelling suggestions had appeared. _No result for Sherlock Holmes_. But now…well, now John can go prying into the life of the bearer of his kid. He hovers the pointer over the very first link.

 

The Science of Deduction.

 

What the hell is that supposed to be?

 

He clicks on it and his eyes widen when the page actually loads.

 

_Is it because they think I’m dead?_

In Afghanistan, there had been three John Watsons. It had always been a joke among the soldiers. John thought that it was pretty fun himself, because what were the chances of having three John Watsons in the RAMC. One was deployed to Iraq during John’s ninth year, and the other had died in the ambush where John had gotten shot. Sometimes the records got mixed up. The other John had been blond as well, although he certainly hadn’t been short and stocky like him.

 

His sister and his mum had thought he was dead and when they’d gotten the news that no, John is very much alive, he just got banged up a little, Harry had thumped him on his uninjured shoulder and said in a shaky voice, “God, I thought you got blown up!”

 

Well, a part of him had gotten blown up. His shoulder looks like a bomb fell on it.

 

A consulting detective, that’s what Haydn had said. Sherlock works for Scotland Yard? Oh, wait no, there’s a post that disclaims that. John reads some of the posts but immediately gets bored with a few of them. No one needs to know about the different kinds of tobacco ash, right? But, still, brilliant, and well, amazing, really amazing.

 

He’d thought Sherlock was amazing. And brilliant. And lovely.

 

And then, after Sherlock had disappeared, John had thought he was a fucking bastard.

 

And now…well…John doesn’t really know what to think.

 

There’s a video in one and John’s gut tightens when he sees the screen cap. It’s Haydn, violin in one hand. The video is of low quality but there’s no mistaking that mass of curly blond hair. John clicks it and waits for it load.

 

_He plays? Well, of course, Sherlock would have taught him._

“Are you looking? You have to look.” Haydn squints at the camera. He looks younger here, maybe around eight. “You’re sending this to Grand-Mère, right?”

 

“Yes. Just play it. If it’s not perfect we can start over again.”

 

That voice. Uniquely deep and soothing and even though it’s stupidly cliché, John can’t stop comparing it to dark chocolate. John remembers Sherlock’s voice more than he remembers his face.

 

Haydn nods. Then he grins at the camera and says something in French. It’s probably a greeting to Sherlock’s mother. He makes a little wave, positions the violin properly, and then he begins to play.

 

It doesn’t take long for John to start crying.

 

He’s _perfect_. God, he has a kid and he’s alive and he speaks French and god knows whatever language Sherlock’s taught him and he’s a baby Mozart.

 

He has to see him again. Screw Sherlock if he doesn’t want John to see his own son.

 

Ella will have a field day if John ever tells her about this. “That’s one more reason to live, John,” she’ll say, and yes, definitely, can you believe it, Ella? My son’s alive and healthy and he’s _brilliant_.

 

He has every right to sue Sherlock and take Haydn away from him.

 

But…John shakes his head. It’s not the right thing to do and John doesn’t think he can do that. Haydn loves Sherlock. It’s obvious from the way he talks about him.

 

He doesn’t even know if he can tell Haydn the truth, not if it might make him resentful of Sherlock.

 

The only thing John really wants to know is why Sherlock left.

 

He’s sitting there, deciding on whether or not he ought to try and contact Sherlock, when his laptop pings with a new message. It’s his email and John’s just about to close it when he sees the subject.

 

A reply in one of his blog posts.

 

That’s…strange. The only ones who know about that blog are his sister, his mother, and Murray. It’s not exactly something John wants to brag about because the blog’s supposed to be part of his therapy, and no one really wants to listen to the complaints of an ex-army doctor with PTSD. John clicks the link.

 

_Nothing happens to me._

H2Holmes: Seems a bit melodramatic

 

John stares at the reply.

 

And then he types back.

 

Can Sherlock blame him if it’s Haydn who wants to get close?

 

 

* * *

 

 

The morning that Mycroft drops by, Sherlock can immediately sense that something’s wrong. If it were a case, Mycroft would just barge in, the tip of his umbrella pointing forwards at a 21 degree angle, like it’s some kind of metal detector. It’s far too early anyway. Haydn’s still eating breakfast in the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and irritable so that he doesn’t even glance at Mycroft when he enters. He’d spent the whole night playing the violin while Sherlock had sat in his chair and read some old case files.

 

“Finished terrorizing the bakeries?” Sherlock greets.

 

“Hello to you too, brother dear,” Mycroft answers, sarcasm dripping from every word. He takes a seat in the chair opposite Sherlock’s but doesn’t say anything. Sherlock doesn’t bother asking. The way Mycroft keeps looking at the kitchen, it’s obvious that Haydn shouldn’t hear whatever he has to say.

 

“Anthea’s still downstairs. She can drive you to school,” Mycroft says when Haydn finally emerges. He’s putting his school tie on but Sherlock knows that he’ll rip it off his neck the moment he gets inside the school gates. Three candy bars stick out from the pocket of his coat.

 

“If she can pick me up later…” Haydn trails off. Mycroft glares at Sherlock as if to say _this is all your fault_. Haydn likes Mycroft’s cars. He likes cars in general and Sherlock still remembers the time when Haydn was six and all he wanted to talk about was how Jaguars are better than BMWs. Sherlock doesn’t see the appeal so he’s always supposed that it’s an alpha thing.

 

“If you promise not to cause trouble,” Mycroft answers and Haydn whoops in delight.

 

“Stop bribing my child,” Sherlock says once the door’s closed. “What do you want, anyway? I don’t have time to solve a case for you.”

 

“John’s back.”

 

Sherlock stares at him. Mycroft’s face gives nothing away. “He isn’t dead, like I’d thought,” Mycroft says and a small part of Sherlock takes glee in the irritated note in Mycroft’s voice. A larger part of him is still having trouble comprehending Mycroft’s words.

 

“I never wanted John dead,” is all Sherlock says because it’s easiest thing to say. It never even crossed his mind, not even…well, after.

 

He liked John. He had a dry sense of humor that Sherlock could related to. He could have even been a friend. But After. Well, things went downhill after that.

 

He didn’t know much about John but Sherlock could read things on him. And he hadn’t read anything that told him John would stay.

 

“That makes one of us,” Mycroft mutters. There’s still a hint of the overprotective, furious tone in his voice. Sherlock had heard it the morning after the party, when he’d come back smelling of John and when he’d been stupidly, pathetically naïve because he didn’t understand why John wasn’t there when he woke up, what did he do wrong? Mycroft sighs and Sherlock braces himself for the next piece of news. “There’s another thing. He met Haydn.”

 

“Did he—”

 

“I’m sure he knows, Sherlock. Haydn mentions you often enough. The best thing you can do right now is to contact John Watson and explain things to him. Tell him that Haydn’s yours and that John mustn’t claim him.”

 

Sherlock laughs at that. “Oh, yes, and what do I tell him, Mycroft? That I didn’t think he was suited for fatherhood because he slept around when we were younger?”

 

“Isn’t that the reason why you left?”

 

Mycroft smiles when Sherlock doesn’t say anything in reply.

 

“Talk to him, Sherlock, or else. You might lose Haydn if John presses charges.”

 

Sherlock nods.

 

“I’ll help in whatever way I can,” Mycroft promises with a small smile on his face. “The boy’s entertaining and Anthea would hate to see him go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John meet up in the next.


	5. An Agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I'm sorry this took so long to update! Real life caught up with me and I forgot all about this story. This chapter is super short but it does mean that there's more to come.

It isn’t a date.

 

_Then why do you feel like you’re in one?_

 

John clears the thought away and forces himself to concentrate. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to respond so quickly. He doesn’t even know how he got his number, but knowing Sherlock (or well, the idea of Sherlock), he doesn’t dwell on it too much. Immediately, he’d wanted to demand questions. Why Sherlock hid their son from him, why he left, John did wrong. But John couldn’t do it. A text is a poor means of communicating how he feels. Sherlock had agreed—no, _demanded_ —to meet John at a restaurant in order to discuss Haydn.

 

A restaurant of all places.

 

Maybe it’s the reason why a part of him is confusing it as a date.

 

The restaurant is small but it’s got an intimate air that makes John aware that this is a place that couples frequent. But it’s clear to John that a candlelit dinner isn’t what Sherlock intends. He must know the proprietor of the restaurant well. A pimply youth had seated John at a table by the window the moment he mentioned that he’s to have dinner with Sherlock Holmes (as per instruction). The boy had nodded, his eyes betraying a hint of recognition at the name, his face settling into a cool mask of professionalism, like he’d done this thousands of times before. Twenty minutes have passed and still no sign of Sherlock.

 

John desperately racks his brain for a memory of what Sherlock looks. He can hardly remember, but he must look like Haydn. Bright-eyed with curly hair and that ever present mischievous smile. Only it doesn’t sit quite right in John’s brain. There was no picture of Sherlock in his blog, nothing at all in other links.

 

He’s thinking about sending another text to the number Sherlock’s been using to contact him, when the door swings open and Sherlock steps in.

 

John’s breath leaves him. That’s why he couldn’t quite connect Haydn to Sherlock. Haydn is adorable and in few years he’ll be handsome. Sherlock…God, John had forgotten how _beautiful_ Sherlock is.

 

Eleven years ago, Sherlock had been stick-thin with an innocence to him that was both amusing and disturbingly seductive. He’s still slender, but he’s filled out a bit, the bird-like hollowness long gone. His curly hair is windswept and his black coat is damp from the rain outside, but he looks lovely, his cheeks slightly flushed from the cold. Man now, not boy, and John can’t help but feel bitter about how he didn’t get to see the transformation.

 

_Don’t be an idiot, Watson. He was never yours._

Eyes follow Sherlock appreciatively as he makes his way to the table. John bristles upon catching the eye of one onlooker. The man’s look of disbelief grates at him and the alpha in John wants to jump out of his seat and start a fight—But no. God, no. If he gives in to instinct it will show Sherlock that he was right to take Haydn away from him.

 

“John,” Sherlock says in greeting. He takes a seat, bright eyes watching John unabashedly. Instinct makes him want to glare back, makes him want to tell Sherlock that he ought to lower his eyes and show respect. John reels it all in. Sherlock cocks his head to one side, and John almost sees a hint of smile on his lips.

 

The almost-smile disappears and Sherlock’s lovely face turns into a cool mask. His eyes are calculating and the intensity of his stare makes John feel like Sherlock is peeling his skin, his bones, until the very core of John’s soul is visible to him. “You have questions, of course,” Sherlock drawls.

 

The blasé tone pisses John off and he’s about to tell Sherlock off for it when he notices the way Sherlock’s pale hands are trembling. Frightened? About what? John blinks. And then it hits him.

 

The law.

 

Of course. He has the upper hand. Sherlock had _run_ from him, had not given him to choice to claim his child or not. If he were to take this to court, John can take Haydn away from him easily.

 

_Maybe you should._

 

_No. That’s a sick form of revenge. No._

“I’m not taking him away from you,” John says. Sherlock stares at him, a look of disbelief on his face. “He’s not my child. You didn’t give me a chance to be a father to him.” He can’t help the bitterness that slips out with the words. If Sherlock hears it, his face gives nothing away. “But for some reason, the boy thinks I’m his new best friend.” John laughs. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

 

“He likes you.” Sherlock shrugs. “You’re contradictory. A soldier and a doctor. You interest him.”

 

 _For now._ He stares hard at Sherlock. _Did I interest you as well? Did you leave because you found out that I’m actually boring?_ This time, Sherlock looks away.

 

“Why did you hide him from me?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. He presses his lips together tightly. He’s not going to say. Not now, maybe not ever. John wants to throw something, wants to _hit_ him. He does neither.

 

“This is what I want, Sherlock,” John says, hating Sherlock, hating himself. “Let Haydn be close to me if he wants. If he wants me to be his friend, then I’ll be his friend. That’s all. He need never find out that I’m his father. I just…Just give me a chance to see my boy grow up.”


End file.
